Warning: Contraindicated
by Wallflowergirl
Summary: It was just a concussion... wasn't it? Hurt!/Sick!Sam Angst!Dean
1. Chapter 1

Okay. This is my first fanfic (takes a bow) and Supernatural (and its fabulous heroes) is a fairly recent obsession. So to all the purists... please be nice... If they're OOC, I'm still getting the hang of this!

**Disclaimer**: Yes! They're mine! My own! My precious - Ahem. Nope, don't own them...

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Calvin Greves had been a dentist. He had worn gray suits and white shirts and had had a tendency to stutter when agitated. Those who could remember him had little to say about him, good or bad. He had been a singularly meek and colourless individual.

Which only went to show to what an extent dying could change a man.

Sam flipped another spadeful of dirt out of the way, trying to ignore the angry screech as Calvin's ghost got its fourth chestful of rock salt courtesy of Dean, and swiped at the sweat which trickled down his face.

"Remind me never to cheat on you with your wife," Dean commented, looking around warily.

Sam glanced at him, eyebrows raised.

"Uh – will do."

"Though maybe if Brother and Mrs hadn't taken him out he wouldn't be so -" Dean broke off and sent another salty missile, smirking at the resultant shriek. "Sam? Any day now would be nice. I'm running out of salt here."

"You've got the easy job," Sam snarked. "I swear they buried people more deeply in those days." He forced the shovel through the soil, hardened by the long rainless days, and ducked as Calvin hurtled over his head. Dean looked quickly around, and then jumped into the hole beside him, thrusting the rifle at him.

"Here, take a turn with this." He caught up his own shovel and removed a hefty spadeful. There was a hollow thud. "Don't know what you were moaning about, Sammy. Here it is."

Sam shot him a withering glance, but didn't reply. His attention was focused on keeping Dean Calvin-free, and as the shovel bit through the rotting wood, he peered around. There was no sign of the ex-dentist, but Sam had been in the trade too long to be fooled into thinking that was a signal to relax. These were Calvin's final moments – well, his _second_ final moments – and he wouldn't be going that easily.

With an unpleasantly shrill yell of rage, the ghost appeared over the headstone. Dean didn't even glance up, his focus on the almost exposed bones before him, and Sam aimed at the flickering figure, knowing that a few more seconds were all they needed. He fired, but the hammer fell with an empty click.

_Oh sh-_

He hadn't even time to complete the thought before he was airborne.

*******************************************************

"-am? Sammy?"

_Dean sounds worried. What... am I late? This motel has awfully hard beds..._

"Sammy? Can you hear me?"

_Of course I can hear you, dumbo. You're yelling in my ear._

"...calling 911."

_911?! What the hell..._ _the ghost. __**The ghost!**_

"D'n?" Something seemed to be holding his eyes shut, but with supreme effort he forced them open. He had a split second impression of a blurred figure leaning over him before the light cruelly assaulted his senses and he realised that someone was doing dynamite excavations inside his head. He squinched his eyes shut again with a pained moan.

"Hey, hey, just lie still a moment."

"Ghost..."

"Seasoned with salt and barbecued."

"Wha... what happened?"

"Calvin gave you a complimentary flight on Ghost Airlines. You crash-landed into a tombstone." Dean's voice was light, but even through his confusion and killer headache Sam could sense the fear. He forced his eyes half-open.

"I... I think... did I...?" He swallowed, trying to organise his chaotic brain. "Head hurts."

"Not surprised... you gave it a pretty hefty smack."

"Mmmm." Sam closed his eyes again. He heard the sounds of Dean shifting on the sandy ground beside him. Then fingers were resting against his neck. Dean was checking his pulse. The hand stayed longer than necessary for its ostensible purpose and Sam sighed, appreciating the comfort of his brother's touch.

"Sammy?" The hand moved to his face, pushing his hair back.

"'s Sam..."

He heard Dean's soft snort, and winced as fingers probed a particularly sore spot.

"Dean..."

"Sorry, Sammy."

"Sam." The headache was a heavy metal band, pulsating to the rhythm of his heartbeat. He cracked his eyes open. This time Dean was clearer. Sam saw the concern in the familiar green eyes. Dean's fair hair was streaky with sweat, and a smear of dirt decorated his forehead.

"You need... a shower."

"What?" Dean's surprise huffed out in a laugh. "Yeah. Don't know what I was thinking... I had plenty of time while you were out cold. Could have gone back to the motel... taken all the hot water..."

"Was I... out long?"

"Long enough." The flash of remembered fear was gone in a second, but Sam knew his brother.

"'m okay, Dean."

"Yeah. Right."

Sam could feel the disbelief emanating from his brother, but he didn't have the energy to argue. He wasn't really alright, but he wasn't about to die either, and that was what mattered. He'd had head injuries before – they were an almost unavoidable occupational hazard – and this one didn't feel any more serious than the others. Which was not to say it wouldn't be unpleasant while it lasted.

"Sam? Open your eyes."

"Mmmm."

"C'mon, Sammy, I have to check for a concussion. Let me see those eyes."

Reluctantly Sam obeyed. The light was still unkind to his pounding head, increasing the nausea which was beginning to demand his full attention. He blinked at his brother.

"Dean... I..."

_I hate vomiting._

Dean's hand was on his back, calming, reassuring. He was muttering something which Sam couldn't quite hear. It didn't really matter. It sounded soothing.

He flopped down onto the grass, away from his resurrected breakfast, his eyes finding his brother's face. Dean looked rueful.

"Yep. Definitely a concussion." He ran his hand through his spiky hair. "You think you can sit up without hurling again? It'd be good to get back to the motel."

The Impala was only just outside the graveyard. Sam had wanted to leave it further away, so as not to advertise their position as much – a 1967 classic was fairly eye-catching and there were people who would recognise it – but now he was glad Dean had refused to park his baby anywhere but under his nose. For all his protestations to the contrary, he was not feeling too good. Dean didn't argue when Sam announced that he was fine, but Sam knew his big-brother sense was in overdrive. Dean had been concussed himself before now. He knew what it felt like.

*******************************************************

Sam was conscious and reasonably coherent, but Dean could see he was in pain. The soft grunt he gave as he let his head flop against the back of the seat was a dead giveaway, as was the way his eyes were scrunched closed. He was paler than usual, although he'd regained some of the colour that had been missing when Dean first saw him after his aerobatics. Dean shifted abruptly in his seat, physically forcing away the remembrance of that moment.

He had seen his brother injured many times, sometimes seriously, but he had never learnt to handle it with equanimity. The mind that could look on monsters with calm, even humour, struggled to keep it together at the sight of a hurt Sammy. Those seconds before he felt the reassuring thump of a heartbeat under his fingers were always the worst. Then panic would give way to pulsing fear as he desperately assessed the damage. Even if the latter turned out to be minimal, he couldn't fully relax until his brother was back to his moody self.

The sluggish, unequal pupils were a clear sign that Sam had a concussion and the nausea only underlined it. He hadn't broken the skin, but the swelling bruise on the back of his head showed where he'd collided with the tombstone. Dean winced, remembering the crack he'd heard. For a moment, when he'd swung round and seen Sam crumpled limply on the ground, he'd thought that it was the sound of breaking bone. Fortunately, the final resting place of one Jeremiah Briggs had proved less hardy than Dean's little brother's skull.

"Neanderthal," he muttered aloud.

"Thought _I_ was the geek," Sam mumbled. Dean snorted.

"I'm beginning to wonder exactly what you do keep inside that head of yours... You managed to crack that tombstone with it."

"Huh." Sam's comeback was hardly snappy. Dean flicked a glance across to him, and then back to the road, his foot urging more speed out of the Impala. Sam would be alright, but he was going to feel pretty miserable until then. He needed painkillers and bed.

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"Here."

Sam lifted heavy lids, wincing as the light jarred against sensitive nerve endings, and saw a hand holding two tablets out to him. Dean's other arm came round him, helping him to sit up. He accepted the assistance without protest, his nebulous thoughts only able to concentrate on one objective: the painkillers.

The wash of cold water against his mouth spurred a return of the nausea but he fought it back. Vomiting up the pills was counter-productive. Besides, retching hurt his head.

He heard Dean's voice ebb, the words flowing gently and unidentified around him.

_Just want to sleep... Dean's shoulder... comfortable..._

"Hey. Hey, Sammy...."

Sam could hear the concern in Dean's half-laugh. He looked at his brother, somewhat surprised to discover that he had to open his eyes to do so.

_Bony... wouldn't buy you for my bed..._

Dean snickered.

"Dude, that better be the concussion speaking."

_Oh. _

_Did I say that out loud?_

"C'mon Sammy."

Hands were laying him back on the pillow, and he turned his head, pushing his face into the softness. The meds were kind, bleeding the pain away, draining his consciousness with it. He felt a calloused palm on his face, fingers that soothed even better than the drugs. He wanted to open his eyes, catch Dean out in a chick flick moment... _only when he thinks I don't know_... but the lovely darkness was calling and he had to answer.

*******************************************************

"Wakey- wakey, sunshine!"

Dishevelled chestnut strands half-obscured blue-green eyes which blinked vaguely open. Sam's gaze darted around and eventually came to rest on the jeans-clad figure of Dean, who had just emerged from the bathroom.

"You want a shower? I even left some hot water for you."

"Mmm. Yeah." Sam ran his hand through his hair, worsening its chaos, and pushed himself into a sitting position. Dean caught the grimace which flickered across his face. He didn't comment, but a moment later a hand holding two white tablets was thrust under Sam's nose.

"You up to leaving today?"

"Today? Why the hurry?" Sam washed back the ibuprofen, pleasantly surprised when his stomach didn't revolt.

"Those maulings in Rawsonville that you found. I thought we could check them out."

"Oh, yeah. The black dog." The nausea might have abated but the headache still clung, making clear thinking a chore. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "We could... uh... yeah. How long..."

"Well, that was coherent."

"I _mean_, how far away are we? How long would we have to drive?"

"Coupla hours."

Sam didn't feel up to leaving. The medication blunted the pain but didn't remove it entirely, and even the hot pounding jets of water in the shower didn't help. He knew Dean was restless, though. This little one horse town was all kinds of boring. Even the waitress at the only diner was about ninety in the shade. Dean wanted to move on, and Sam didn't want to be the reason he couldn't. Under cover of packing his duffle he swallowed three aspirins, hoping they would accomplish what the Advil hadn't, and straightening, he managed a grin.

"Let's go."

Dean looked at him searchingly, but Sam didn't miss the relief that flashed through his eyes.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Just keep the Advil handy."

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Sam was lying. Dean suspected it when he saw his brother swallow the aspirin, and knew for certain when he came out of the restroom at the filling station to see him screwing the cap back on the bottle of ibuprofen. He frowned as he slid back into the driver's seat.

"You still have a headache." It wasn't a question.

Sam jumped guiltily.

"Uh -"

Dean lifted the plastic bottle and shook it gently.

"Next time, sneak the meds more subtly."

"I'm okay, Dean. Concussions leave headaches. It doesn't mean I'm incapacitated."

"Ooh, big word. Does it mean, 'I'm an idiot who messes around with head injuries'? "

"Ha ha. I'm not nauseous, I'm not dizzy and I'm not confused -"

"Well, that's a matter of opinion."

"Dean."

"Sam."

"Listen, that town was more than boring, and the bed in that motel was only making my headache worse. Besides, if it is something seriously – um – _life threatening_ – there wasn't even a doctor for miles. So we're safer leaving." Sam sounded so reasonable, he was almost convincing himself.

Dean took a breath, one hand going to the back of his neck. What Sam said made sense, and he knew if he never saw that place again it would be too soon. But he also knew head injuries shouldn't be taken lightly. Guilt nibbled at him. Sam was pale, faint shadows under his eyes evidence that he was not recovered. They shouldn't have left.

"We're going to stop at the next town."

"What?"

"Stop. Us. Next town."

"Why?"

"I've heard that the girls there are beyond hot."

"Something like Methuselinah back in Hicksville, you mean?"

Dean snorted. Sam obviously wasn't fooled, but he didn't argue, and that told his brother more than anything else that he was right to insist they stop.

The next town was an improvement. It had both a diner _and_ a bar. The motel room was decorated in interesting shades of what Dean termed puke green, but the beds were slightly more comfortable the previous night's. Sam dropped a little too quickly onto his and reached for the Advil. Dean raised one eyebrow.

"How many of those have you popped today?"

"Uh... four? I think?" He opened the bottle, and grunted. "Dean? Were you planning to get lunch?"

"Why?"

"Can you get more of these?"

"_More_? I only bought that bottle -"

"Yeah, but now it's finished." The stiff set of his mouth warned Dean not to argue.

"There's some kind of maximum dose on those things." Dean had never been one to heed warnings.

"Dean, I said -"

"You said you had four. I'm assuming you threw the other eight in the bottle out the window?"

Sam's shoulders slumped, his expression becoming mutinous.

"My head hurts, Dean..."

"I know, Sammy." _Why can I never resist that tone?_ "Okay, I'll get more. But maybe you should mix it up some. Take aspirin. I'm not dealing with you stoned on Advil."

"Aspirin doesn't help."

"It will if you mix it with Advil. Take half a dose of each. Seriously, I don't know what happens when you OD on those things but it probably isn't nice. And we use too many of them anyway. "

Sam sighed morosely.

"We wouldn't need to use them if we weren't always getting thrown into things. Or clawed by things. Or -"

"Dude. Not having that conversation." Dean's voice was _almost_ a snap. Sam glanced at him from under lowered brows, and decided to swallow his frustration.

*******************************************************

_The heavy oak table shuddered, rose into the air and slammed into the wall with a shattering crash. Sam slid behind a conveniently placed dresser, looking around. Dean had been here a moment ago. _

_A knife thudded into the wood, inches from his head, and hung there quivering. Sam cursed. Poltergeists were at their worst in the kitchen. So many dangerous things to toss around. If he could lure it into the hall, he'd be in less danger of being impaled or crushed. _

"_Aahhh!" _

_Too late. He squirmed under the weight of the chair, pushing it off his middle where it had landed and knocked him to the floor. That had hurt. It still hurt. He'd have a bruise there tomorrow. _

_A shimmer in front of him showed where his target was contemplating its next move._

"_Bacon or sausages?"_

"_**What**_?" Sam's eyes flew open. Dean was staring at him, brows raised, a paper bag in one hand. Behind him morning sun filtered through faded motel curtains. Sam blinked, rubbing his eyes.

"They're not _that_ bad, Sammy." His mouth curved.

"Jerk. And it's Sam." Sam swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and caught himself before a grimace of discomfort twisted his face. One arm draped surreptitiously across his middle.

_If it was just a dream, why does my stomach still hurt?_

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	2. Chapter 2

Well, I wasn't going to publish this chapter until I'd finished chapter 3... but I got such a lovely response that I couldn't wait! Thank you to all you fantastic people who reviewed!

See disclaimers and blah blah blah in first chapter...

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"Well, that was anti-climactic."

"Thank you, Webster."

"A freakin' bear!"

"Whoa. Whoa. I'm not the one who _found_ the hunt. _You_ said it looked suspicious."

"Well." Sam paused. He hated to give Dean ammunition, but there was no escaping the truth of that. He had led them on a wild-goose chase. Or a black-dog-which-turned-out-to-be-angry-but-very-much-non-supernatural-bear chase. He kicked himself mentally. He was a seasoned hunter. A seasoned researcher. He should know the difference between wild animals and monsters by now.

Absently he rubbed his stomach. The pain was still there, not agonising, but nagging enough to distract him, to prevent him from functioning at full capacity. A faint but grumbling nausea had kept his appetite at bay for the last three days, beyond what he would have expected from the concussion. At breakfast, Dean had looked pointedly at the almost uneaten pancakes on his plate, and Sam had been hard-pressed to find an excuse for not eating them. Dean had muttered something about the concussion. Sam had tacitly run with that. Of course it was the concussion. What else could it be? Although he'd never had a concussion that gave him stomach-ache.

Dean threw himself down onto his bed, ignoring the outraged creaks of ancient springs, and looked at his brother. His expression was less than complimentary.

"Next time _I'm_ finding a hunt."

"Whatever, Dean." Sam didn't have the energy to handle Dean in a snippy mood.

"_Whatever_? That was completely the most useless day I've had in a long time. Not to mention that we wasted an entire tank of gas getting here. And a bunch of bullets taking that not-black-dog down before it wasted us."

Sam wanted to argue, defend himself, but he knew Dean was right, and he had no excuse, and his stomach ached. He bent his head, letting his brother's frustration wash over him.

"... again, so help me, I'll salt and burn your.... Sam? Are you even listening to me?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, nothing. You're sulking."

Sam frowned.

"No. I just... let it go, okay?"

"It's not that simple, Sam-"

"Okay, I'm sorry! I'm an idiot! I totally screwed up! There, are you happy now?"

Sam didn't wait to observe Dean's reaction. In the absolute silence which followed his outburst he made for the bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind him. He had just enough time to turn on the shower before the nausea overtook him, bringing him to his knees before the cracked toilet bowl. Dimly, through the sounds of his own retching, he heard Dean banging on the door, but he was too occupied with being sick to pay attention to his brother.

_Okay. Guess I'm still concussed. _

He forced himself to his feet, wincing with the pain in his stomach, and swiftly divested himself of his clothes. Dean had stopped banging on the door. Sam could hear thumps from the bedroom, but he had little energy or inclination to imagine what his brother could be doing. Heavily, he stepped under the shower, willing the hot water to wash away the lethargy which gripped him. A headache pulsed lightly behind his eyes.

Dean was seated on his bed, remote in hand, staring at the television. He didn't look up as Sam exited the bathroom.

"Well, that was mature."

Sam didn't answer.

"Grow up, Sam. I'm getting tired of bailing you out."

"Just shut up, Dean." _And that's not fair, I have your back a lot of the time._

Dean thrust himself off the bed.

"Fine."

"What -"

"I'm going out."

"Dean-"

"What?"

"I feel -" _Funny. Sick_.

"Not in the mood for a heart to heart, _Samantha_."

"No, I... my stomach hurts."

The plastic bottle of Advil smacked against the side of his head, and rattled onto the bed.

"Ow! Dean..."

"Suck it up, Sammy."

Sam was silent. The pain was bad, but Dean in this mood was worse. He looked down, resisting the urge to wrap his arms around his middle, and listened as footsteps went to the door. Hinges creaked and wood collided with wood as Dean shut the door behind him – not quite a slam, but close. In the parking lot the Impala roared.

The room was cold. Sam discovered he was still clad only in a damp towel, and with movements that were clumsy with unwarranted exhaustion he pulled on clean boxers and almost clean jeans. His gray hoodie was slung over the back of the single chair, on the other side of Dean's bed. It was too far. Suddenly sleep seemed more important.

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He was lying on his side, a scratchy motel blanket pulled over his shoulders, legs pulled up to his chest. The pain was constant now. Nausea came, and went, and returned, stronger than before.

Headlights gleamed through the curtains, casting brief, sharp shadows.

_Dean? _

Darkness again.

_No, Dean's mad at me, remember? I screwed up. That stupid bear.... I would have sworn it was a black dog. Even Dad... no, Dad never messed up.... not a hunt, anyway... Dean? Where... oh... he went out... I don't feel so good.... never had a concussion like this before..._

Cold.

Shaking hands reached for the blanket, trying to find warmth where none was available.

_Black dog. No, it was a bear. Dean... Dean was so mad... where is Dean?_

_He went out._

_I feel sick. Gonna be sick..._

Sam lunged up off the bed, fell awkwardly to the floor in a tangle of long uncoordinated limbs.

_Gonna throw up..._

Somewhere in the confusion his body made it to the bathroom, curled up and over the toilet, before the retching took him. The desperate heaving hurt, dragging at the pain in his stomach. Soft, sobbing breaths were loud in the dingy little room. He curved in on himself, reflexively running one hand over his mouth, hating the taste of vomit in his mouth but lacking the strength to get up, rinse it out.

_The taste of vomit._

_That's weird._

_That's not..._

Sam blinked, trying to focus suddenly blurred eyes. He brought his wavering hand up. Red... splashes of scarlet... his palm... from his mouth... With an effort, he lifted his head, peering into the bowl.

_That's bad._

_Need help. Need..._

_Dean._

_Go to duffle. _

_Get phone._

_Call Dean._

Hands slid on the tiles. Vision grayed for a moment, speckled black, then cleared again. The synthetic fibres of the cheap motel carpet were harsh on his palms as he crawled.

_Just need..._

_Phone._

_Dean._

_Get phone._

_Where...!_

He panicked, scrabbling unsteadily for the duffle. Canvas slid, the zipper refractory.

_Dean._

_Need help._

_So much blood..._

Plastic slid in sweat-slicked hands.

_Can't see..._

_Dean._

_Why am I so dizzy?_

_Dean..._

Windows, walls, beds swirled nauseatingly, a kaleidoscope of light sparkles and dark blotches. A dull thud. Pain which blurred through his head but bowed before the greater agony in his side. Bristly fibres against his cheek.

_Dean...._

There was a soft, unheard thump as the phone slithered from suddenly limp fingers.

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Dean swallowed the last of his beer and looked around, his hunter instincts not allowing him to relax without fully scoping out his surroundings. The bar was not the worst he'd ever been in. But then he'd been in some interesting dives in his years. The clientele were only what he'd expected. Paunchy young-old men who obviously had less than a nodding acquaintance with a razor mingled with the occasional over-made-up and underdressed female. The somewhat determinedly blonde woman behind the bar could have been anything from twenty-five to fifty. Dean rather suspected the latter.

Sam would hate this place.

At the thought of his brother, the half-amused expression on Dean's face faded. Sam had screwed up today. Any hunter of any experience should be able to tell the difference between the supernatural and an honest to goodness wild animal attack. And Sam _was_ experienced. How many hundreds of hunts had he researched? How many had he participated in? He'd even met his fair share of black dogs. Dean put the empty beer bottle down a little harder than necessary.

Sometimes it was just impossible to know what was going on inside that shaggy head. Things would be going just fine, and then he would spring something unexpected, straight from left field, leaving Dean bemused and trying to catch up. And then it would turn out to be something that he'd been stewing on for days and Dean hadn't even noticed.

Sometimes he wished they could just go back to those days when his brother was a chubby toddler. Then, little Sammy was satisfied with candy, with a cuddle and his favourite shabby teddy bear. For a moment Dean remembered the huge dark eyes and soft silky hair, the warmth of the small body curled against his. Sam had definitely been easier then. Life had been easier then.

He waved the waitress over and ordered another beer. He could play some pool. They were a little short of cash. He looked over at the game being played, and thought about joining in, and sat unmoving.

_I wasn't too hard on him._

_I've been harder._

_Dad was much worse when we were growing up, and we rolled with it, and learned. And life went on._

He looked at the full beer bottle in his hand. Took a gulp, and swallowed, and put it down again.

Sam hadn't really argued. He'd come out of the bathroom and sat on his bed and not looked at Dean. It was unlike him. Sam was moody and argumentative, and stubborn enough to defend himself even when he was wrong.

_It's not like either of us was hurt..._

_Shut up, Dean. You weren't too hard on him._

Dean took another swallow of beer. Then he stood up, one hand depositing coins on the scratched and grubby wood, and left. He couldn't remember the last time he'd paid for a bottle of beer and not finished it.

*******************************************************

The moonlight was kind to the motel. In the pale silver it was easy to pretend that the paint wasn't peeling and that the potholes in the parking lot were actually landscaping features. Dean grunted as one wheel of the Impala dipped into one such feature, his baby groaning in protest at the indignity of the treatment.

The parking lot was pretty much deserted. This wasn't exactly the tourist hub of the United States. He and Sam were the only suckers who had thought it worth their while to be there, and even they'd been mistaken. Dean's mouth twisted at the thought, and for a moment he thought wistfully of that half-full bottle back at the bar.

There was no light showing through the shabby curtains of their motel room as he approached it. He glanced at his watch. Not that late. Probably about the earliest he'd ever left a bar, in fact. Sam had better appreciate his thoughtfulness.

_Not that I did it for Sam._

_Why did I do it?_

His key rasped in the un-oiled lock, and he pushed the door open.

Moonlight through murky curtains produced odd shadows. Things were difficult to make out clearly.

There was enough light, though. Enough to see the sprawled unconscious figure of his little brother, the slack tangled limbs, the cell phone lying inches from limply curling fingers, mute testament to a failed plea for help.

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A bit shorter... but such a tantalising place to stop :-0

Reviews are chocolate on a bread and water day....


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Do I keep having to say it... NOT MINE!

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His hands were shaking. Car keys went unheeded to the floor as he threw himself across the room, smacking his knee on the nearer bed frame and not even noticing the flare of pain.

_Nonononononono..._

Sam was huddled on his side, his face pressed into the carpet. Dean turned him over, one hand feeling for a pulse while the other fumbled for the switch of the lamp. Sam flopped onto his back, limbs lying anyhow, carelessly sprawled. His eyes were shut.

"Sammy... Sam..." He was mouthing his brother's name like an idiot. His fingers slid over clammy skin. It seemed an eternity before they discerned the feeble flutter of a heartbeat.

_Too fast. _

_Clammy. _

_Cold._

_He's in shock. _

_What the __**hell**__?_

"Sammy... come on man, speak to me... wake up. You're freaking me out here..." His voice shook. He rested his palms on either side of his brother's face, willing those almost translucent lids to lift. Sam was so frighteningly quiet. His skin was pale alabaster, cold and slick with sweat.

"Sammy..." One hand slid back down to his brother's neck. Sam's pulse was a hurried tapping that did little to reassure him.

Sam quivered, an almost imperceptible movement.

"Sammy?"

"De..." Green-blue eyes cracked open. Sam stirred, and a moan broke from him. "Hurts..."

"What is it? What hurts? Your head?"

"N-no... stomach..." Sam pressed his arm around his middle. His body curled, trying vainly to evade the pain. Dean blinked, confused and alarmed.

"Your stomach?"

"Mmm... De..." Sam's breath stuttered. "I feel... sick...."

His face twisted as he swallowed convulsively, and Dean knew what was coming. Quickly he turned his brother onto his side, just as Sam's body heaved.

He retched violently, and Dean's hands went automatically to his shoulder and back, supporting and soothing, muttering comfort, even as his suddenly horror-stricken mind tried to take in what he was seeing. That was blood. Sam was vomiting _blood_.

Sam slumped down with a whimper and Dean caught him before he went headfirst into the expelled contents of his stomach. He pulled his brother up against him, feeling for the first time just how cold he was. Sam shivered hard, one hand coming up to clutch the fabric of Dean's jacket.

"Dean..." His voice hitched, the fear evident through the weakness.

"What happened, Sam?"

"Stomach hurt... threw up... so much blood... tried to call you but... so dizzy..." He turned his head, pressing against his brother. "Feel... so sick... scared..." The last word was almost inaudible. Dean felt the clench of the fingers holding his jacket, and his own hand came up to cover his brother's.

"De... don't go..."

"I'm not gonna leave you, Sammy -"

"Hurts..."

"It's okay, Sammy. It's okay."

It wasn't. Sam griped about all sorts of things: Dean's music, the motels, Dean's food, the credit card scams, Dean's women... but he didn't complain when there was genuinely something wrong. For him to be admitting to sickness – admitting that he was _afraid_ – meant that he was in a bad way. If the crimson stains on the carpet weren't already sufficient evidence of that. He needed to get to a hospital.

"Sammy? D'you think you can stand if I help you?"

"N-no... De... why..."

Sam was confused, his incoherence increasing as his words started to slur. His grip tightened desperately on Dean's jacket.

"Sammy, I need to get you to a hospital."

"Don' wanna..."

"Sammy, you're vomiting _blood_, for freak's sake. We can't deal with that here." Dean's voice came out sharper than he'd intended, fear lending it an edge that he regretted when he saw tears blur the already glazed eyes turned up to his.

"Aw Sammy, I'm sorry. Just... I can't carry you, man. You need to work with me on this. Please?"

" 'kay..." Sam's voice was tiny and exhausted. Dean rested his hand against his brother's face for a brief moment.

"Good. C'mon, Sammy."

Sluggish muscles shifted weakly beneath his supporting hand. Sam was obviously trying, but his attempts were almost useless, his movements erratic. Dean's arm tightened against his back, his other hand gripping Sam's arm, and with a minimum of elegance, hauled him to his feet.

He felt the soft shallow sigh of breath on the side of his neck before Sam went slack in his arms, suddenly, bonelessly, unconscious again.

"Sammy!"

He struggled, fighting to support the unexpected dead weight, his knees buckling. Then they were on the floor again, Sam sprawled, heavily unmoving, against him. Dean only just managed to prevent his brother's head from smacking against the floor.

"No..." He gripped his brother's wrist, desperately seeking evidence to contradict the awful fear that was icy within him. Sam's arm lolled unresisting in his grasp. Dean's fingers searched for the thud of his brother's heartbeat, and moved, and moved again, and found nothing.

He was mumbling to himself, panicky, meaningless words. Sam's arm dropped with a thud as Dean's hand went to his neck.

_Maybe..._

_Can't..._

_Sammy..._

_Sam._

It was the faintest quiver under his fear-sensitized fingertips. He stilled, almost willing his own heart to pause, to be silent, to confirm that that was Sam's pulse he was feeling and not something conjured up by his desperation and longing. He bent his head down over his brother's face.

And he felt it. Air moved against his cheek, quick, uneven, but _there_. Sam was breathing.

His arms tightened convulsively, tears he wasn't aware he was crying spilling down his face. His breath broke from him in a hiccup that was almost a laugh, of relief and fear and emotions he couldn't even define. He had to move, to get help, but for this one suspended moment it was enough to be holding his brother who was alive and breathing and _not dead_.

He swiped impatiently at his face, surprised to find it wet, and thrust his hand into his pocket to pull out his phone.

"911, what is your emergency?"

The woman was so calm. Dean found himself shouting at her, furious and terrified and shaking, because it wasn't right that she should be unmoved when this was happening, when Sam was unconscious and bleeding and unresponsive. Sam had been fine, and Dean had only left him for such a short time. He should have been researching on his laptop and sulking over their argument, complaining about feeling –

Feeling sick.

_My stomach hurts, Dean._

_I feel..._

_Suck it up, Sammy._

_Not in the mood for a heart to heart, Samantha._

He could hear himself barking his address at the woman, his mouth on autopilot while his brain looped, the same thought over and over.

_He told me... I should have known... something was wrong..._

_I left him._

_I left him._

_Oh Sam._

He let the phone drop to the carpet. The woman on the other end was still speaking but he ignored the tinny squeak, focusing instead on shrugging out of his jacket, tucking it around the limp body of the boy in his arms. Sam was only wearing jeans. He was so cold... how long had he been lying there? He pulled his brother more securely against him.

"I'm so sorry, Sammy... I'm so sorry... I should have listened to you... I've got you now, you're gonna be okay, you hear me?"

His fingers ran through the strands of dark hair that clung damply to Sam's forehead, a wretched comfort which his brother was unable to feel. Sam's head was tucked against his shoulder. Dean rested his cheek against it.

"Hang in there, Sam... I've got you... not gonna leave you... hold on, bro... hang on, Sammy..."

He didn't move when he heard the wail of the siren outside, the crunch of gravel under the wheels of the emergency vehicle and the hurried feet of the paramedics. They banged on the motel room door and pushed it open where Dean had forgotten to lock it, and came in, swirling around him in a rush of activity, and all he could think was that he'd failed his brother.

"Hypotensive..."

"Tachycardic..."

"Diaphoretic..."

Words eddied over him, technical and complicated and meaningless except for the one inescapable truth: that Sam was desperately sick and Dean had walked away and left him when he should have seen that something was wrong.

_Sammy..._

_Sammy..._

It was a refrain that repeated in his brain, over and over and over, as he watched them work over his brother, transfer him to a stretcher, lift him into the ambulance. When they moved to close the doors he argued, pleaded with them to let him accompany them in the ambulance, tried to convince them that he wouldn't be in the way.

"Sorry, sir... need space to work... need to hurry... follow us to the hospital..." Disjointed and sympathetic and implacable.

He locked the motel door. Climbed into the Impala and switched on the ignition. Shifted into Drive and released the brake, foot going down on the accelerator and hands directing the steering wheel. Ahead the ambulance lights flashed red and he followed it mindlessly. The siren was a monotonous accompaniment to his thoughts.

_Should have seen..._

_Should have noticed..._

_Should have listened..._

_Sammy..._

_So sorry, Sammy..._

_So sorry..._

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	4. Chapter 4

Urgh. This chapter did NOT want to be written... it fought me every step of the way. I'm still not 100% happy with it. But I figured you'd rather have an update than a Pulitzer-winning piece of literature that never saw the light of day...

**Disclaimer**: I repeat - not mine. Not mine. Not mine. Okay, enough repeats.

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It had to be one of the most irritating sounds he'd ever heard.

It didn't help that it was repetitive.

It also didn't help that he'd been listening to it non-stop for the last hour.

Dean straightened in his seat, wondering absently why hospital waiting room chairs always appeared to have been designed by someone with severe curvature of the spine, and cast a malevolent glance at the preteen with the Playstation.

_Wish I had a rifle with rock salt..._

He put a hand to the back of his neck, distractedly massaging the tense muscles.

Why was it taking so long?

He had rushed into Emergency along with the paramedics, desperately hovering over the stretcher bearing his unconscious brother. Sam looked even worse than he had at the motel, his ashen face almost gray, long limp fingers bluing slightly. Dean held the hand that was not attached to an IV line, willing his own warmth to pass to his little brother. Sam was so cold...

He had argued and fought at the swing doors to the Emergency Unit, determined not to be separated from his brother again. It was bad enough that he'd not been allowed to travel with him in the ambulance. But the nurse had flatly refused to allow him in, eventually threatening to call hospital security and have him removed, and Dean had had to give in.

Since then he'd been sitting in the waiting room, staring blindly at the peeling dull green walls and trying to ignore the maddeningly perky "music" of the Playstation.

He stood up explosively, strode to the end of the waiting room and peered hopelessly in the direction of the ER. The boy with the Playstation looked curiously up at him, and he glared back.

_Sammy..._

He returned and dropped back into his seat, leaning his head against the wall behind him. He closed his eyes and rubbed them with thumb and forefinger. Unbidden, the image of his brother rose to mind as he had seen him upon his return to the motel that evening, the limp huddled figure on the cheap motel carpet. Sam's cell phone had been lying right by his hand. He had tried to call Dean, knowing he needed help, wanting the one person who should have been there, who shouldn't have left in the first place. But he hadn't been able to. His weakened body had betrayed him.

_Just like I betrayed him._

Dean leant forward with a stifled groan, dropping his head into his hands.

"Family of Sam Winchester?"

Dr. Elin Landon was on the right side of thirty, dark curls pulled back from a strikingly pretty oval face, blue scrubs unable to conceal what was a decidedly curvaceous figure. In any other situation Dean would have been switching on the charm instantly.

Now all he could think about was the gravity of her expression.

"Dean Winchester. Sam's brother. Is he... how's Sam?"

"If you would just follow me, Mr. Winchester..."

Dean stiffened. That did not sound good. Why wouldn't she –

"No, why can't you speak to me here? What's wrong with Sam?"

"Mr. Winchester-"

"_What's wrong with Sam_?"

Playstation Boy looked up again, staring avidly. Across the waiting room a porter stiffened and leaned forward. Dr. Landon cleared her throat.

"Mr. Winchester, please calm down. I would rather we spoke with a little more privacy, but if you would prefer to remain here-"

"Just tell me that he's going to be okay."

Dean was unable to keep the quiver from his voice. The blue eyes which had been decidedly frosty softened slightly as they saw the fear in the green pair staring back.

"There is no reason to believe that Sam will not make a full recovery." Her gaze was sincere, and Dean relaxed a little. Her expression remained serious, however.

"Sam is stable and I will take you through to him shortly. I would really rather prefer we spoke somewhere else, though. If you would please come with me we can discuss this in my office."

She turned, obviously unwilling to argue any further, and Dean found himself following her dumbly. Sam was going to be okay. She'd said so herself.

_A full recovery._

_A full recovery..._

_He's going to be fine._

His worry diminished sufficiently to allow him to admire Dr. Landon's back view as she preceded him to her office. _Pity those scrubs are so baggy... she's got one hot –_

"In here, Mr. Winchester."

Dean had never liked visiting other people's offices. There was something about sitting facing someone official across a desk that reminded him of his schooldays, of stern, impatient and hostile principals. Elin Landon was the furthest from a school principal that could be imagined, but the almost forgotten tension rose in him as she leant against her desk.

"What's wrong with Sam?" he said again.

"Sam experienced a severe upper gastrointestinal haemorrhage. As a result he was in shock when he arrived. This is being treated with IV fluid replacement and we will be administering blood transfusions once he has been cross-matched. As I said, he is stabilised now, but we are and will be monitoring him carefully. As soon as adequate blood volume is restored we will be doing an endoscopy to determine the cause and extent of the bleed."

Dean's mouth compressed, one eyebrow lifting slightly.

"But he's okay."

She took a deep breath.

"His condition has stabilised. Many upper GI bleeds resolve spontaneously without too much intervention, but the volume of blood loss in this case is concerning – that he went into shock as a result suggests arterial bleeding. We won't know for certain until we've done the scope. We'll be admitting him at least until that's done so that we can administer the necessary treatment -"

"Necessary treatment?"

"Worst case scenario, surgery. But that _is_ the worst case scenario, and it is most likely that that won't be necessary. As I said, many bleeds resolve spontaneously. We need to monitor his condition, though, for the next twenty-four hours at least."

"Why?"

"I'm sorry?" She looked taken aback.

"Why would he suddenly start throwing up blood?"

Her expression became thoughtful.

"Well, Mr. Winchester, we will hopefully be able to see that from the scope. Meanwhile, you might be able to give us some idea. Has he been complaining of stomach pains at all?"

Dean stared at her, his gaze blurring momentarily.

_My stomach hurts, Dean..._

_Suck it up, Sam..._

"Mr. Winchester?"

"Uh... uh, sorry. Yes, he mentioned earlier this evening that his stomach hurt."

"And before that? How long was it hurting?"

Something flickered across Dean's face.

"I... uh... I'm not sure. Not too long... maybe a coupla days?" _How long has Sam been feeling sick? What signals did he give off that I didn't notice? I'm sorry, Sammy..._

"A couple of days... not before that?"

"Uh... not that I noticed. He didn't complain." _Would he? Was I just too blind to see that he was in pain?_

"Has he been under particular stress lately?"

"Stress?" _Ha. You have no idea, lady..._

"Chronic stress can result in stomach ulcers, which are a common cause of upper GI bleeds."

"Oh."

"It's also possible..." she hesitated. "I noticed that Sam has a number of scars -"

Dean's eyes narrowed imperceptibly, but his voice was carefully expressionless when he answered.

"Yes. We're hunters... our work is very physical."

She nodded, although her glance was curious.

"I presume you use painkillers on a fairly regular basis, then."

Dean's mouth quirked.

"Excessive use of non-steroidal anti-inflammatories can increase the risk of GI bleeds. Ibuprofen – Advil, Motrin? Or aspirin?"

Dean straightened.

"Sam had a conc... er... bad headache about a week ago. He took quite a lot of Advil. I was a bit worried so I told him to take aspirin as well – wasn't sure if that much Advil was good for him-" His voice trailed off as he caught sight of her expression.

"He took Advil _and_ aspirin?" She shook her head. "That could very well be the culprit. Mr. Winchester, you should never take those together; they have the same effects and so double the risks. Apart from anything else, aspirin, being an anti-coagulant, would have worsened the bleeding."

Dean was silent.

_I told him to take aspirin... It really _is_ my fault. I basically poisoned him and then I ignored him when he tried to tell me something was wrong... _

"Mr. Winchester?"

"Huh?" Dean blinked. Dr. Landon was looking at him with more than a little concern in her expression.

"Are you alright, Mr. Winchester? You seem a little... distracted."

"I...no. No, I'm fine." _I_ _just almost killed my baby brother. I'm fine. Absolutely peachy._

Her eyes narrowed slightly and Dean could see she didn't believe him, but she let it pass. She straightened.

"I'm sure you'd like to see your brother. I'll take you up to the ICU now."

_**ICU?!**__ What the hell..._

"It's routine in the case of a bad GI bleed," reassured the doctor, although Dean hadn't said anything. "He shouldn't have to stay there too long."

Dean blinked, nodded and followed her without speaking.

************************************************

Sam was too pale.

He hadn't opened his eyes since Dean had arrived. He lay very still, his head turned slightly away with untidy strands of chestnut hair drooping over his face and the pillow. IV lines were taped to both hands.

Dean wasn't sure if he was asleep or just pretending. He was too quiet: Sam asleep was almost more vigorous than Sam awake. But that could be the shock. Sick Sammy was another story altogether.

A story that Dean hated.

He sighed, scrubbing his hand over his forehead and then resting it against his chin.

"Sam..." His voice was low. He wanted Sam to wake up. Oh, how he wanted Sam to wake up! But what would he see when he did? What expression would those green-blue eyes hold? Dean could imagine the accusation, the hurt. _You left me, Dean... you didn't listen when I tried to tell you I was sick..._ And Sam didn't even know the half of it. Dean found himself almost wanting Sam to stay under so that he wouldn't have to face his brother's distress. Then he hated himself even more for wanting that.

Dr. Landon had said that Sam would be fine, that it was just a matter of waiting for his blood volume to stabilise. Then they would do the scope. Dean's face twisted a little. Sam wasn't going to like that – having a camera stuck down his throat. He felt his own gag reflex stir at the thought.

Sam's nearer hand lay limp on the sheet, the fingers curling slightly. Dean wanted to hold it. He would never dream of admitting it, but he appreciated the occasional physical contact they had. He made fun of Sam, called him a girl, when he tried to initiate hugs. Those were sentimental, emotional, for people who lived normal picket fence lives and had normal families. They weren't for Winchesters. Winchesters didn't do chick flick. It was only in situations like this, when one of them was hurting or ill, that he had to acknowledge that he wished they were a little more – normal – that way. How often had he laughed at Sam, seen that rueful smile on his brother's face that was not quite hurt? And turned away wishing he could just have taken the gesture, given in to an embrace.

_Showing my brother I love him doesn't make me less of a man._

Now he found he couldn't.

_I want to hold his hand because I want comfort. I want reassurance; that he'll be okay, and we'll go back to how we were. That he won't blame me for hurting him, and leaving him. _

_I don't deserve that reassurance..._

There was a faint movement from the bed, and his head jerked up, his eyes flashing to his brother's face. Sam turned his head a little, his eyes scrunching. Then the thick lashes lifted, and his eyes opened.

***********************************

_I'm so tired._

_Head hurts._

_Stomach hurts._

_Hands – OW! Ah. Hands hurt too. I've felt that before... IV needles?_

_Am I in hospital?_

With what felt like a superhuman effort, Sam opened his eyes.

No motel room had ever been guilty of this spotless whiteness.

_What am I doing in hospital?_

_Why... the ghost? I hit my head.... I think... maybe..._

_Dean. Where's Dean? Is he okay?_

"Dean!" It was a stentorian bellow. At least, that was what he intended. He was vaguely surprised when a weak mumble came out instead.

"Sam? You're awake!"

Sam managed to turn his head in the direction of the voice. Dean was sitting beside him, leaning forward, his eyes wide and worried.

"Dean? What happened? Why 'm I 'n hospital? _Are you okay?_"

Dean laughed a little, an uncomfortable sound.

"_I'm_ fine. You're the one who was heaving blood all over the floor."

"Wha..." Sam's voice trailed off as the evening's events rushed back. Stomach ache... cold and dark... staggering to the bathroom... vomiting... blood.... trying to get to the phone... _so_ _dizzy._..

"Sam?" Dean was staring at him. "Are you okay?"

"Did you find me?"

Dean swallowed, an indefinable expression crossing his face.

"Yeah. Yeah, I came back... you were on the floor. Out like a light." _I thought you were dead. _"You woke up, though – you threw up. Don't you remember?" _I thought you were dying... _

"N-no." _He_ _came back? He left the bar. I ruined his evening._

"Oh. Well, you... you passed out again, so I... I called an ambulance. They brought you here." _If I hadn't been so caught up with that STUPID bear I would have listened to you and we would have sorted this out before you lost all that blood and went into shock..._

"Oh. Okay." _He just wanted a break after that STUPID bear and then I went and fainted like a girl. I messed up his hunt and then messed up his evening._

"It looks like you're going to be fine but they just want to keep an eye on you for a bit longer. And do a coupla tests to see what went wrong." _And protect you from your big brother, who's supposed to _be_ the protective one but instead almost killed you. _

"Okay. That's good, then." _Dean's still mad at me. He's trying to be kind but he's not looking at me... and he hasn't called me Sammy once. I really screwed up this time..._

"Yeah. Yeah. So you just lie there and... uh... get better." _He does blame me. He's remembered that I left him. He's too polite... and closed off. I really screwed up this time..._

Both smiled uneasily. Both leant back, one in his chair and the other against the pillows. Neither said anything more.

**************************************************

"Well, the scope showed an arterial bleed, which was what we expected. Fortunately it was not as extensive as we'd feared, and we were able to deal with it then and there."

"So no surgery?"

"No surgery." Dr. Andrew Everett, who was on duty in place of Dr. Landon, smiled at the relief in the two faces before him. "We'll be keeping Sam in for another day, just to be one hundred percent certain that everything is okay, but it looks like he'll be walking out of here soon."

He saw the quick glances, as the two young men looked at each other and then hurriedly away. All too seldom was he able to give such whole-heartedly good news; and the reaction was usually more enthusiastic than this. Despite the undeniable relief, both brothers looked uncomfortable. They appeared to be avoiding each other's gaze.

Dr. Everett could see that something was off, but he'd been on duty for thirty-six hours straight and had little energy to play psychologist. He rolled his shoulders and grinned.

"Well, I have to be off now. I have to be in four different places five minutes ago... who'd be a doctor!" Chuckling, he departed.

Sam smiled perfunctorily, appreciating the doctor's humour less for its wit than for what it indicated: that there genuinely was nothing to worry about. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Dean hadn't responded. His face was sober – almost grim. Sam swallowed, his grin dying.

_He's still mad at me._

Dean ran his hand through his hair.

_He really is going to be okay. Despite all my efforts to the contrary. _

"That's good. That everything's okay, I mean."

"Yeah." Sam's voice was small, and he didn't look at Dean. There was an uncomfortable silence.

Dean broke it by standing up.

"I'm going to get some coffee. You want some?"

"I'm not supposed to drink it right now. Too acidic."

"Oh. Yeah." _There I go again – why didn't I know that? _"See you just now." He went out, almost hurrying to escape the tension that hung so palpably between them.

Sam sank back against his pillows. To his horror, he felt a suspicious pricking behind his closed eyelids.

_I'm sorry, Dean. I really didn't try to screw up... honest. Don't be mad at me..._

The room was cold, and he slid down in the bed, pulling the sheets up around him.

_Dad was always the one who got angry. Dad would blame me. Dean didn't... wouldn't... I tried for Dad but he didn't understand... Dean didn't really either but he never blamed me. I'm sorry, Dean. I'll double-check next time._

_I wish they'd turn up the heating in here. _

He turned onto his side.

_This blood loss business takes it out of a guy. No pun intended. I'm still so tired... I could sleep for a week...._

_I feel like I went ten rounds with the ghost of Muhammad Ali._

_Oh wait – he's still alive. _

_The ghost of someone strong, though..._

_Maybe I cracked a rib vomiting. My chest hurts._

_Gonna sleep. Dean's not here – and he doesn't want to talk to me anyway..._

******************************************

Dean put down the gray-brown sludge that passed for coffee in this hospital and peered cautiously at his brother. Sam was lying curled up on his side, one hand holding the sheets to his chin. His eyes were shut.

Dean's heart wrenched.

He looked so young. So defenceless. More than a little like the toddler of twenty-odd years ago.

That toddler was now a freakishly tall young man who was most definitely not defenceless, but Dean still knew the fierce instinctive protectiveness that had been part of him ever since his tiny baby brother had been put into his arms by their desperate weeping father. _Take your brother, Dean!_

_Look after him... keep him safe..._

One hand went to the back of his neck as he took a gulp of the coffee.

The room was quiet, the only sound Sam's breathing as he slept.

Dean frowned, leaning forward a little.

Sam's breathing.

It sounded odd... too fast. Almost strained.

He stood up, leaning over the bed. Sam was pale, a faint sheen of sweat glossing his skin.

"Sam..." In sudden trepidation he put his hand to his brother's forehead.

He had barely time to register the unnatural heat before Sam's eyes opened. He looked at Dean, his expression changing from confusion to discomfort. His hand released the sheets and went to his chest.

"Sam? You okay?"

"Dean..." Sam was scrabbling against the bed, trying to push himself up. Dean quickly put his arm around his brother's shoulders and helped him, feeling with increased alarm the feverish warmth that struck through the hospital gown Sam was wearing.

Sam coughed, long and harsh, and fear thudded through Dean like a physical blow.

This wasn't right. It wasn't supposed to be like this. That doctor had said Sam was fine – that he'd be walking out of there in a day or two.

"Sam? What is it?"

"Dean... don't feel so good... can't..." He coughed again, his chest heaving. Dean could feel the increased effort as air sucked hoarsely in and out.

"Dean... can't breathe..." Sam's hands flailed, as if to catch the oxygen that his struggling lungs was unable to draw in. One found Dean's sleeve and his fingers twisted in the fabric in a desperate grip.

"Sam, calm down, it's okay. Just relax, breathe with me, _come on, Sam_..." Questing terrified fingers found the call button and Dean pressed it, holding it down.

"Dean... help... me..." Sam's face was darkening, a faint but inexorable blue tint creeping around his mouth and nose. His eyes were glazing but the fear they still held was heartbreaking. Then, abruptly, they rolled back, and Dean felt his brother go limp in his arms.

"No! _Sammy!_"

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Don't blame me. It was SunnyZim who suggested complications... and who was I to argue?

Hersienings, asseblief! (please review)


	5. Chapter 5

**And here it is! The final chapter! HUGE apologies to Sammy for leaving him suffocating for over a week! Blame the PhD.... and the Table Mountain-sized chunk of writer's block that wouldn't let me get anything out even when the PhD gave me a break. **

**And now: I'd just like to thank my goldfish, Oscar, for always believing in me... Seriously, though, thanks to my Dad and brother for being medical sounding boards, and my Mom for being unofficial beta. And thanks to all you fantastic people who reviewed, and also those who didn't review but put me on story alerts... love you all! If I haven't replied to a review send me a nasty message and I will! I appreciate them all so much, including the anonymous/ non-logged in reviews which I can't reply to but love just as much!**

**This story is dedicated to SunnyZim who hooked me on FanFiction in the first place - just one of the many addictions that we share! :-)**

**And now that you're all asleep from my ramblings, let's get down to the story...**

**Disclaimer**: I don't own them. If I did... well, let's not go there ;-)

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"He's hypoxaemic. Chest X-ray indicates bilateral lower lobe consolidation. I want this kid on IV cefuroxime and metronidazole."

Dr. Everett was considerably less cheerful now. He barked orders, his face frowning. Dean, thrust unceremoniously to the side by the influx of medical personnel, watched in helpless frustration and fear as uniforms blocked his view.

He couldn't see Sam. But he could hear him.

"Tachypnoea... dyspnoea..." The nurse who had come hurrying in response to the frantic pressure on the call button had phoned through to Dr. Everett, her words technical and professional and unable to conceal the alarm that had spiked in her eyes when she saw Sam.

More of the fancy medical jargon. Dean didn't need a PhD in hospital lingo to know that it was bad. _No-one_ should be breathing like that, fast and strained and wheezing.

They'd said he was fine. Dr. Landon had said he was stabilised. Dr. Everett had said he'd be walking out of there in a day or two. He was sitting up and talking and _fine_.

Dean bit his lip, hard enough to squirm at the pain.

_I didn't get a chance to say I'm sorry. _

_What if I never do?_

_Shut up, Dean. He'll be okay. He's a tough kid._

_But what if... what if this is tougher? _

_Some day we're going to fight a battle we can't win. We can't live forever._

_But it shouldn't be now. _

_It shouldn't be before I have a chance to say sorry..._

"Mr. Winchester!"

"Huh? What?"

Dr. Everett was standing in front of him, frowning a little.

"What – how's Sam? What's wrong with him?"

"Sam has developed what is called aspiration pneumonia. When he vomited he must have inhaled some of the gastric contents, which are acidic, and consequently damaged his lungs."

_Ass-what?_

"Is that bad?"

Dr. Everett's lips tightened.

"I'm not going to lie to you, Mr. Winchester, it's a serious condition. We are treating it with an aggressive course of antibiotics. Right now the most important thing is respiratory support. He's on oxygen, but we will be monitoring his condition. He may need to go onto a ventilator."

"But he'll be okay."

Something flickered in the doctor's eyes.

"Many patients respond to therapy very positively. There is no reason to suppose that Sam will be any different."

Dean saw what the man wasn't saying. His voice was harsh through the sudden constriction in his throat.

"He _will_ be okay. Sam will be fine."

Dr. Everett smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.

"We'll be doing everything we can."

Dean knew the doctor was trying to be kind, but he found himself resenting it. Dr. Everett didn't need to pretend. He didn't need to say reassuring things with his mouth and forecast doom with his eyes. Sam was going to be fine. He was going to fight off this ass-thing – pneumonia – and get up and go back to the motel with Dean and be all emotional and girly and normal. He was going to do it because Dean wouldn't let him do anything else. Dean _couldn't_ let him do anything else.

There was a shift in the personnel around the bed. Dean broke away from the doctor and made for his brother. He wasn't going to spend time in useless discussion when he could be with Sam.

Sam was no longer such an alarming dusky blue, but his colour was nowhere near normal. The head of the bed had been elevated to assist his breathing. A nasal cannula delivering oxygen was secured beneath his nose.

"Sammy?" Dean's hand went, without thought, to his brother's forehead. Sam was still too hot.

Sam blinked slowly, eyes struggling to focus.

"D'n..." He coughed. "Don' feel... so good..."

"I know, Sammy."

"Wha'... why..."

"Apparently when you were busy losing your lunch you breathed it in. It screwed around with your lungs."

Sam blinked vaguely.

"Would have thought you'd know better than to vomit and breathe at the same time, college boy."

A dimple made a valiant attempt at an appearance, but Sam was obviously too exhausted to respond fully. His eyes slid shut, opened sluggishly, and shut again.

"D'n..." It was a mutter, almost inaudible. But Dean's hearing was exceptionally acute where Sam was concerned. His hand shifted, and closed comfortingly around the long, limp fingers which lay on the sheet.

_To hell with the chick flick aversion..._

******************************************

There was something on his chest.

It hurt.

Not in an "I think I broke a rib" kind of way.

It was more of a heavy, dull, ache.

Whatever it was, it wasn't making breathing any easier.

Sam wished it would just get off.

He was so tired. He couldn't remember ever being this tired. Everything seemed such an effort. Surely it had never been this hard just to breathe? How had he kept it up for over twenty years? In out in out... everyone did it, even babies. But it seemed now to be one of the most difficult things he'd ever had to do.

It was as if someone had tied a thick, wet blanket over his head.

He was cold, too. He could feel the weight of what must be bedclothes. They weren't doing a very good job.

_We picked a pathetic motel this time._

He heard voices, soft, feminine.

_Jess._

Not a motel, then.

_School... the apartment... _

"Jess..."

"Sam?" That was most definitely not Jess. The voice was deeper, masculine. Familiar.

_Dean_.

"Dean..."

_What's Dean doing in the apartment? Where's Jess? Why..._

It was strange and unfamiliar. Something was... off. This didn't feel right.

"Sam. Sammy. Hey, calm down."

Dean again.

Whatever was on his chest was pushing down. It was squashing him.

Where was Jess?

"Jess!"

It was getting harder to breathe. Something was on his face, covering his mouth and nose. It wanted to smother him. He had to get it off.

He struggled, fighting to get away. He had to escape. It was trying to kill him...

He felt hands on either side of his face, blocking his attempts.

"Sammy. Sammy! Relax, kiddo. You've gotta calm down."

_Dean! Help me! Tryin' to get me... kill me..._

"De..."

He had to get away. Find Jess. Escape. They were all around him...

"Need to..."

"Shhh. Just lie still, Sammy... breathe for me.... you're gonna be fine..."

_No. Hurts. Can't breathe..._

"Do something... he can't breathe... help him..."

A voice... _Dean_.... sounded worried...

He could hear other voices. The feminine ones again.

_Not Jess. _

A man's voice. Not Dean's. Someone was holding his wrist.

_So tired..._

_So tired._

_Need to... sleep..._

Someone was calling his name. He couldn't answer.

_Too tired._

"Sammy..." Urgent. Fading.

_Dean...._

**********************************************

It's out there, chasing them. Dad was there, but now he can't find him.

Sam can hear the rustles in the heavy undergrowth all around.

He has to get it. Trap it. Kill it.

It's so cold...

"Dean?"

Dean doesn't answer. Sam turns, stares, spins around in sudden fear.

"Dean!"

Dean was here. Where has he gone?

A crashing. Something lunges, snarling, trying to attack him.

Sam flings up his rifle. Fires. Silver bullet finds its mark.

Fur and blood and hideous shrieks. Writhing as it returns in death to its human form.

Spiky fair hair... five o'clock shadow... scars...

Familiar green eyes stare accusingly. Sightlessly.

_Dean....!_

Sam's scream fades as he falls into darkness again.

*****************************************

"Grow up, Sam. I'm getting tired of bailing you out."

Dean sits on the bed, staring at the television.

"Dean..."

"I'm always doing damage control. Always having to rescue you."

"Dean... no...."

"Dad always knew you would be a liability. You're useless as a hunter. You should have stayed in Stanford."

"'m sorry... 'm sorry..."

"I'm sick of your complaining. Always moaning, always whining."

"'m sorry, Dean... I'll try... don't..."

"I wish you'd just go back, to Stanford and your precious friends and your perfect _normal_ world. Dad and I were better off without you."

_Don't.... please.... Dean... don't send me away..._

_Sorrysorrysorrysorry..._

_Need a chance... can be better... won't be a burden..._

_Dean..._

_Dean..._

********************************************

Sam shifted restlessly, his head on the pillow moving from side to side. Sweat-darkened hair clung in limp strands to his forehead. Under the oxygen mask his face was heavily flushed. His eyes were half-open, but they were blurred with fever and unrecognising of anyone around him.

"Dean..." His voice was hoarse, cracked. The mask muffled the sound but couldn't hide the distress. One hand lifted weakly, groping for something – _someone_ – before falling limply back onto the sheets.

Another hand, stronger, closed over the slack fingers.

"It's okay, Sammy. I'm here."

"Dean..."

"I'm right here, Sammy." Exhaustion and grief and endless patience.

Green-blue eyes cracked open a little more, peered at him.

"'m sorry... De... sorry..."

"What for, Sammy? You got nothing to be sorry for."

"Sorry... Dean... don' wanna... go..."

"Sammy..."

Dean stared in helpless misery at his brother. Sam was delirious, wandering, lost in dreams and nightmares that tortured him and tortured Dean almost as much. He cried out, moaned, whimpered in distress, and always came back to this.

_Dean... _

_Sorry, Dean..._

_Don't wanna go..._

_Don't leave me..._

Dean had thought he could not feel worse than he had in that stark moment of realisation back in the motel, cradling his unconscious brother and knowing that this was his fault. But he'd been wrong.

Listening to that husky voice, pleading, begging for him to stay, not to leave him, he knew a depth of guilt and self-hatred that he couldn't have imagined. He'd caused this illness, with the medication that he should have known might be dangerous. Left his brother, selfishly angry with him for a mistake any seasoned hunter might make, let alone one who was already ill. Ignored him when Sam tried to tell him something was wrong. Sat drinking in a bar somewhere while Sam threw up and passed out and breathed in stuff which cruelly damaged his lungs.

And now he refused his brother the refuge of sleep. He had no doubt that Sam relived the experiences of the last few days, of Dean's abandonment and his own fear at the severity of his situation, of trying to call his older brother, unsuccessfully. That abandonment and fear stalked Sam's nightmares, Dean knew. The guilt of being the cause of those emotions haunted his own.

He had no idea why Sam was saying sorry.

He was fighting a frantic but losing battle with the realisation that he might not have the chance to say it himself.

"No... Dean...."

"Shh, shh Sammy. 'S okay. I'm not gonna leave you." His thumb moved in idle circles over the back of his brother's hand.

"Dean..."

*****************************************

Dean hangs from his wrists, head down, blood trickling from his face.

"Sam... help me..."

Sam lifts the gun. Stupidly slow. Aims.

Misses.

"Sam..." Dean's scream. Agonised. Terrified.

"Dean!"

Sam sobs, blotting out his brother's dying yells.

Should have killed it... Wendigo...

Missed. Failed.

_Dean... so sorry... so sorry..._

**********************************

Hands tight, fingers tense on the trigger.

Dean lies on the floor. Still. Poised.

Staring at him.

Daring him.

"Shoot me, Sam...."

His finger jerks, pulling the trigger.

Dean's face... shocked... blood spilling...

Green eyes are horrified. Devastation and sorrow fade to blankness._ Betrayal._

_I killed him... I shot him... Dean... big brother..._

_Nonononononono...._

_Dean..._

_Dean... sorry..._

_Dean..._

***********************************

"You killed him..."

"Dean is dead..."

"Failure..."

"Didn't tell her... should have warned her..."

_Jess..._

"Never be a hunter... not a good little soldier..."

_No... Dad..._

Heads turn away, condemning, hating.

Leaving.

_Don't leave me..._

Green eyes, fair hair, familiar leather jacket.

"Goodbye, Sam."

_Dean...._

Frightened.

Alone.

_Can't fight..._

_Can't do it without you..._

_Dean..._

_Sorry, Dean.... so sorry..._

*******************************************

"I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester."

Dean's eyes were dull with fatigue, green surrounded by spiders' webs of red. He blinked.

"He's not responding to the antibiotics and his lungs are weakening. He's slipping into a coma. I'm afraid... I'm afraid there's nothing more we can do."

_Lungs weakening._

_Slipping into a coma._

_Nothing more we can do._

_Nothing more we can do..._

Sam was finally still. His body was lax and unmoving, his face turned slightly away on the pillow. The only sounds in the room were the beep of the heart monitor – _too fast_ – and the shallow, gasping breaths as Sam's failing lungs fought for oxygen through the congestion.

His hand was burning hot. Motionless. Long limp fingers lay unresponsive in Dean's grip.

Dean didn't notice when the doctor quietly left the room.

"Sammy..." He didn't know what to say. He stared down at the hand in his. Sam's hand. His baby brother.

Tiny starfish fingers, closed round his thumb... little chubby hand, clinging as they crossed the road... thin fingers under his as he taught his brother how to fire a rifle...

He'd held that hand so many times.

Now he was holding it again, for the first time in years. And it was going to be the last time. Sam was slipping away from him. Leaving him. His little brother, the most important person in the world to him, the one he'd give his life for, was dying.

_Never going to hold his hand again..._

_Never going to hunt with him again..._

_Never going to fight about girls, or music, or food..._

_Never going to deal with one of his moods..._

_Never going to comfort him after one of his nightmares..._

Years of being Sam's big brother were ending, here, now, and there wasn't a single solitary thing he could do about it.

"Sammy." His throat was dry and aching.

_I never got to say sorry._

_Our last conversation... I went to get coffee. I didn't say sorry. He still blamed me._

_I'll never get to say sorry..._

Dean had never been one to show his affection for his family physically. A manly hand on the shoulder was generally the furthest he'd go.

Now his inhibitions seemed ridiculous. How many times as a child had he put his arms round his baby brother, cuddling a frightened Sammy after a bad dream, patting him on the back after a particularly good performance in a training session?

What had happened to that Dean?

When was the last time he'd hugged Sam?

He'd avoided emotional moments for so long. He didn't want to talk about his feelings. Sam should know that... that...

_I can't even say I love him in my head._

_That's just all kinds of wrong._

His teeth clenched, and for a moment his eyes clenched shut with them.

Sam's hand was slack and unmoving in his and he clutched it desperately, as if somehow by holding on he would keep Sam's life tethered here, prevent it from slipping away. Stop Sam leaving him.

There were people around. Nurses, doctors... They could see him if they looked in, but it suddenly didn't matter who saw, who was witness to the emotional collapse of Dean Winchester. His world had shrunk to this room, this bed, this boy who was his brother and who was leaving – _dying_.

Without even thinking Dean slid off his chair and climbed onto the bed, wrapping his arms around his brother and holding him tightly. There was no response from Sam, no evidence at all that he was aware of Dean's presence. Dean cradled his brother's head against his shoulder, his fingers moving slowly, almost unconsciously, through the damp strands of chestnut hair.

"Sammy..." His voice was a low mutter, almost inaudible. It didn't matter. The only person who needed to hear was here, in his arms – not hearing him. But at that moment Dean just needed to tell him anyway. Maybe, somehow, wherever he was, Sam would sense it, feel what his brother was saying.

That was all that Dean had, now.

"Sammy... I'm so sorry... I should have listened to you. I should have seen you were sick. I should have stayed with you... I'm so sorry I left you. I was mad about that bear and that was so stupid, you know?... I just got mad and took off... I'm so sorry..."

The hand that wasn't stroking the dark head held Sam's hand. He looked down at the long clever fingers, the calloused palm.

"I shouldn't have given you that aspirin... ya know that made it worse? Doc says you shouldn't take Advil and aspirin together. I shoulda known... or... or found out. I just thought... I guess I thought the Advil would be bad all by itself. I was tryin' to help... I wasn't... I didn't mean... I dunno, Sammy, seems like I'm doing a hell of a bad job of looking after you... I'll try better –"

His voice hitched, and broke.

_Can't try better._

_Not getting another chance..._

"I know I always push away the emo sessions but... but... you know I... ah, hell, I'm so bad at saying this stuff. It's just... I can't let you go without telling you. I couldn't have done it without you, kiddo... Mom... and Dad... all the fugly stuff we go for... I think... I think I wouldn't have made it if you weren't there. I guess what I'm trying to say is... is... " His voice faltered.

"I'm giving you a chick flick moment on a plate here, man, and you're ignoring me!" His wobbly chuckle broke in a sob.

"I can't... I can't do it, Sammy... You're the only one I've got. I can't say goodbye to you, too..."

******************************************************

He was so light. Weightless.

Everything had been a battle for so long. Fighting through the nightmares. The pain, the struggle to cough, to breathe.

_Don't want to fight any more._

_I tried... _

_I didn't want to give up... _

_It's just too hard._

_I'm just too tired._

Letting go. It was almost a physical sensation. He was drifting away, to quiet and lightness, to where his chest didn't hurt and he didn't have to labour for every breath.

_Sammy._

It was the faintest whisper of sound.

_So sorry..._

_Sammy..._

It didn't make sense. He didn't want to listen. He wanted that quiet and peace and relief, so alluring, so welcome to his exhausted body. But something was stopping him. Something wouldn't let him go.

"So bad at this..."

"Couldn't have done it without you, kiddo... Mom... and Dad..."

The voice was familiar, pulling at him through the fog which separated them.

Mom.

Dad.

_Dean?_

"Couldn't have made it if you weren't there..."

It _was_ Dean. He sounded odd. Husky. Choked.

"I can't do it, Sammy..."

_What... don't understand..._

Thudding against his ear, rapid and audible. Heaving, shaky breaths.

"You're the only one I've got..."

Dean was...

_Dean is crying?_

He wanted to move, to help. Say something. Something was wrong. Drastically wrong, to make Dean lose it like this. Dean hadn't cried since...

"I can't say goodbye to you, too..."

_Huh?_

_No! No... don't... don't wanna... don't leave me..._

It was _so hard_, turning his back on that lovely peace. But he didn't want it now, like that. He didn't want peace and rest and quietness – without his brother.

"De..."

****************************************************

"De..."

Sam's voice was so weak that Dean almost didn't hear it.

It was only when the hot fingers stirred in his grip that his head jerked up, staring first at their entwined hands and then at the face resting against his shoulder.

"_Sammy_?"

Thick eyelashes fluttered. Eyelids scrunched.

"Sammy, can you hear me?"

"Dean..." It was the faintest breath. It was hoarse and rasping.

It was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard.

Then he was staring at a sight he'd thought he'd never see again – the familiar blue-green of his brother's eyes.

Exhausted. Feverish.

Awake.

"Sammy..." Nothing else could get out. "Sammy..."

"Dean... don'... don' wanna say g'bye... wanna stay..."

"Sam..." It was a choke.

"Not gonna leave... don' make me..."

Dean hadn't thought it was possible to be holding Sam any tighter than he already was. Now he found he'd been mistaken.

"I'm sorry, bro... I'm sorry... it's all my fault... I'm not gonna leave you again, you hear me?"

Sam's head stirred against his shoulder.

"You... you're not... mad at me?" His voice was small and surprised.

"What? _Mad_ at you? Why?"

"I... I screwed up... the hunt..."

The hunt. The hunt! If it hadn't been for that _stupid hunt_...

"Sammy, I...." He swallowed, hard. "No. I'm not mad at you. I'm not mad at you at all. I'm mad at myself."

"Why?" Sam sounded honestly confused.

"_I_ was the one who screwed up! I told you to take the aspirin and it made you sick. And then you tried to tell me and I didn't listen... I left you, when I should have seen something was wrong..." His voice broke, sound wholly suspended by the tears that threatened to choke him.

Sam's hand stirred, pulled free of his. Then it smacked weakly against Dean's chest.

"You're such... an idiot... sometimes..."

"_What_?"

"I took aspirin... myself... before you told me... and too much Advil... you tried to stop me... if 's anyone's fault... 's mine..."

"But –"

"You needed... a break. 's nothing wrong... with that..."

"But –"

"You gonna... stay at home... every time I get... a tummy bug, man?"

"_It wasn't a tummy bug!_"

"I didn't... know that. You... wouldn't have... either."

"But –"

"You're a little too... obsessed with... butts, Dean."

Dean closed his eyes briefly. His laugh was more than half sob.

"Sammy... I thought... I... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Dean..." Sam's voice was fading. "Stop it. 'S okay."

Dean was silent.

Sam's eyes were almost shut as he drifted. Almost under... almost gone again.

But it was different now. The incessant rhythm from the heart monitor was slower, steadier. The face against his neck was cooler.

Sam was coming back.

**************************************************

Sam moved his head, shifted so that he was resting against Dean's chest. It was the old familiar position, the post-nightmare position, the "big brother will make it better" position.

They hadn't sat like this for years. Somehow it was as if they were back to those days.

They'd both been through the nightmare, separately. And now it was over.

He could feel the steady thump of Dean's heart against his ear. Lulling him to sleep. Real sleep, without dreams. Without those awful fears...

Dean was here, and they were going to be alright.

"Dean..."

"Sammy?"

"I... nothin'."

He was almost asleep.

"De..."

"Mmmm..."

"Jerk...." _Love you, bro..._

Dean's muttered answer was lost as he slipped into sleep, but he understood anyway.

_Love you too, Sammy..._

_**Fin**_


End file.
